


This Night

by wordsliketeeth



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Alternate Universe, Bruises, Character Death, Character Study, Depression, Gen, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Loneliness, Mental Health Issues, Overdosing, Regret, Suicide, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-11
Updated: 2020-08-11
Packaged: 2021-03-06 08:55:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25846948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordsliketeeth/pseuds/wordsliketeeth
Summary: Kise no longer has the ability to break through the age of retrospection. It's futile anyway; he no longer cares about the fleeting moments of flattery or cursory fanfare. They've never done much for him in the way of lasting benefit, and they certainly don't quench his thirst for blood when he's itching for a fight. Which seems to be more often than not these days.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 6





	This Night

**Author's Note:**

> This story contains major character death and possible triggers. Please mind the tags.

Kise sits framed in the rays that stream through the windows of his apartment, the glow of warm sunlight paling his honey-lemon strands to almost white. His silhouette is delineated by a halo of resplendent warmth that chases away the shadows on his face. He's changed over the years, grown a little taller, lost weight along with the sands of time he wishes he could call back. His clothes don't fit him the way they used to, the stitches of expensive fabric too loose on his frame. It's not pretty and it's not subtle, but Kise doesn't care about dressing sharp anymore. The material that hangs on his body is only good for hiding the bruises that make abstract patterns on the unhealthy pallor of his skin. 

He recalls being told that he was beautiful, can even hear the voices that showered him in compliments, but those memories blur the edge of reality and fantasy now, and Kise no longer has the ability to break through the age of retrospection. It's futile anyway; he no longer cares about the fleeting moments of flattery or cursory fanfare. They've never done much for him in the way of lasting benefit, and they certainly don't quench his thirst for blood when he's itching for a fight. Which seems to be more often than not these days. 

He has a photo shoot in an hour and a party to attend thereafter. He doesn't want to go. 

Kise glances outside and thinks about how long it's been since he last saw clouds take over the sky. He shields his eyes against the endless stretch of blue and wonders why he only ever sees a boundless sweep of dusty gray. 

He makes his way into the kitchen and hooks his index finger around the handle of his favorite mug, a gift from Kuroko on his eighteenth birthday. He puts on a happy expression but he knows that the cracks in his smile are starting to show. He exhales a heavy sigh and reaches for the carafe on the counter, still warm from the morning's routine five o'clock coffee. He pours the dark liquid into his mug, marked by single-mindedness and the consistency of daily practice. The beverage burns when it touches his lips but the thoughts crowding his mind take the pain away, makes him unaware of the tingling sensation spreading out across his tongue. 

Kise sets the mug down and attempts to rub the visible fatigue away from his eyes. He heads in the direction of the bathroom, stumbling and catching himself on the nearest wall with the curve of his shoulder. He laughs and the sound rings through his ears like something foreign. He doesn't know exactly when he abandoned grace but he assumes it was around the same time everything fell apart. 

He knows that he should consider modifying his routine and fall back from the poor decisions he's been making. He knows he should trade the nights he spends in all the wrong places for nights at home, but that would mean going back to the beginning—to the place where this all started, a time when he could still _feel_ , and Kise doesn't know that he has the strength to try anymore. 

And there's a part of him, buried deep within the bones of his chest that knows he's not entirely alone—but when all of his friends tell him that he should take some time for himself, that he deserves a break, all he can hear is the sound of them pushing him away. 

Kise looks in the mirror and frowns at his reflection. He stares at the shadows under his eyes and the finger-shaped bruises that mottle his neck; some have nearly healed but the others are fresh and dark. He shifts his gaze to the fading imprint of teeth set against the smooth column of his throat and swallows thickly. He can't even recall whose mouth those teeth belonged to. He drags a hand through his hair, fingers trembling so badly that he can feel the motion down to the uneven pulse in his veins. 

He wishes he could click his heels together and trade this life for something new. He prays night after night that some storm would come whisk him away and make everything okay again. 

He feels like he's falling, slipping into the vacuum of space—or maybe a hole that he's tripped into headfirst with no memory of where he's been. But there are no stars or planets lined up under the promise of gravity here. There are no talking flowers or pocket-watch rabbits or red roses. There's no fantasy or offshore lands to explore. There's only desolation, and hopelessness, and the hole that he's made with the hands that shake when he tries to dig himself out. 

The edges of his periphery are getting darker with each day that slips through his fingers. He knows that he's been taking things too deep lately, that he's been going too hard. He's left with nothing but the words that those who have trespassed on his conscience have led him to believe. And the truth is, those words have been in the vein of love, but Kise can't bring himself to admit it. Accepting that he's been cared for and loved instead of abandoned feels like taking a bullet to the chest. 

It's harder than admitting that he's abandoned himself. That his former-self left him with the devastating result of someone crippled by insecurity and isolation. It's caustic to the wounds of his heart and he wears it in his bones, in the skin that he's worn off of his knees from countless nights spent with unfamiliar men. 

And it was never about the money or the parties or the drugs. It was never about acclaim or friendship or sex. It was always about one thing, one emotion that he longed for more than any other: acceptance. But every time he thought he found the exception, the one person who could take away this...this feeling of melancholy and despair, they would turn his back on him. They became just like everyone else, another person he'd mistaken for somebody who gave a damn. 

So he prays for wasted nights and sleepless days because pain is the only thing that gets him close to God anymore. 

He believes that he's fully aware of how bad things have gotten. He thinks that he still knows which way is up, but in reality, he's so far off-track that he's going in the opposite direction without a way back. He doesn't comprehend the finality of what he's doing, nor does he acknowledge that he's fumbling through his vanity for a prescription that reads _how to disappear_. He doesn't understand that he's worth more than he allows himself credit for, not even when the empty bottle bounces off the edge of the sink and rolls across the floor to be forgotten.

Kise staggers into the bedroom and collapses on his bed. He tries to ignore the moisture that weighs down the long lines of his lashes as he props himself up against his headboard. He grabs a pillow and toys with a loose thread on its cover, idle thoughts tearing a hole through the darkest recesses of his mind. He sniffles once, his voice low and quiet when he speaks to the room: “Why wasn't I enough for you?” The silence says nothing back and Kise curls into himself, his arms wrapping around the bony jut of his knees. 

He doesn't count the minutes ticking by on the wall, doesn't want to recognize time's existence until forever has come and gone. The ringing in his ears grows painfully loud, beats over the pounding awareness of belated adrenaline that rushes through his veins. He glances around the room and tries to steel himself against the dizziness that tips his surroundings sideways. 

“Why am I always alone?” he manages, voice straining against the dark of his throat. He digs his nails into his skin and rocks back and forth on the bed. “I'm scared.” 

He believed that he was too dead to care about living, too bloodless to bother trying. And this is not how he wanted to find out that he was wrong. 

His voice cracks, spreads into open terror in his throat as he crawls to the end of his bed. He loses his balance and falls over the edge of the mattress, landing hard against the timeworn carpet. 

“I'm sorry,” he says, sobs crowding his throat. “I take it back. Please,” he cries, struggling to drag his weight toward the hallway. His body shakes and convulses with such intensity that the carpet leaves imprints on the bend of his elbows in a rosy shade of pink. 

Kise coughs, tasting the familiar bitterness of blood on his tongue as his lips go dark and wet with red. He rakes his nails through the fibers stretched out in front of him and forgoes his attempt to make it across the room. He tugs at the duvet covering his bed, instead, his hands shaking so violently that it takes him several attempts to pull the material toward him and wrap it around his frail body. 

“It's so cold,” Kise whispers, unable to find volume in the desperate plea. “Please, make it stop.” He knows no one can hear him but he'd rather listen to the sound of his voice than the icy reticence of the room. 

He tries to suck in a breath but he winds up gasping for air and choking on the oxygen that enters his lungs like he's already forgotten how to breathe. He feels sick creep up his throat and coat his tongue in its vile brackishness but he refuses to vomit. He tightens his jaw on resolve and wipes at his mouth with the edge of the duvet, expecting it to come away stained red. But there's not a single drop of blood left on his lips, that or it was never there at all. It wouldn't be the first time Kise's imagination played tricks on him. 

Suddenly, warmth begins to blanket the chill that's making Kise shiver. It helps to take his mind off of the desperate edge of his breathing and the sound of it scratching raw against the back of his throat. He lifts his head a fraction, though it seems to take all of the energy he has left. He blinks his eyes in an attempt to clear the blur and the haze clouding his vision. He furrows his brow and narrows his eyes, squinting at the dark outline of a person kneeling on the floor right in front of him. His heart skips a beat and the figure reaches out as if to brush the sweat-damp strands off of his forehead. 

Kise sets his teeth on the bottom line of his mouth and bites down to stifle the cry of terror that claws at the cages of his chest. He clutches at the bedding in his hands until his fingers ache and presses his face in against the plush material. 

“I'm sorry,” he says, over and over again like he's stuck between the wax and the needle. The mantra continues until his tremors cease and the tears slicking his cheeks stop flowing so steadily. The shadow on the wall goes as still as his body and the room grows eerily quiet. 

Before long, a bird lands on the ledge of Kise's bedroom window and begins to sing a song that stirs the silence, all while the sun disappears behind a billow of dark clouds that hang like gallows—proving that death is not the opposite of life, but merely a part of it. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


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